


love me a little, I adore you

by mostlikelydefinentlymad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, I have no excuse for this tooth rottingly sweet fluff, John Watson Has Feelings, Love Confessions, M/M, Post Mary, Post-Canon, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Fluff, Sherlock has reservations about the word Love, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 03:24:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8355142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlikelydefinentlymad/pseuds/mostlikelydefinentlymad
Summary: If you were to ask John when he'd fallen for his best friend he'd say, "January 29, 2010. St. Barts with a pipette in his hand. From the first."Sherlock shudders and the last brick of every wall he has ever constructed crumbles. John Watson is in love. He'd left his fiancé at the alter. He'd mourned for two years after Sherlock had swan dived from St. Barts. He'd nearly drank himself to death...for love. It's a vicious motivator indeed. Mycroft is wrong, he has to be."You love me," he breathes and takes John's face in his palms, eyes darting over its every curve for confirmation.





	

**Author's Note:**

> “I love you more than my own skin, and even though you don’t love me the same way, you love me anyways, don’t you? And if you don’t, I’ll always have the hope that you do. And I’m satisfied with that. Love me a little. I adore you."  
> Frida Kahlo

"I love you more than my own skin," Sherlock murmurs.

His heart beats, steady beneath John's ear.

John's mind skips back to four years past, a limp wrist in his hand. Blood painting the sidewalks a deep red, the rush of his own pulse like the pounding of a muffled drum. His life bottled and tossed to the sea; he'd died that day only to be reborn at the bottom of an empty Jack Daniel's bottle. If reincarnation were something he could put stock in, John would've begged the powers that be to lay his soul to rest one last time. He'd pushed and kicked at life back then until the only thing keeping him afloat was the thought of staying alive to defend Sherlock's tarnished reputation.

He was fading, one second to the next and everything slipped beneath the surface. God and all of his angels couldn't offer the sort of peace and redemption that he needed. And then he'd met Mary Morstan. Her name tasted wrong on his tongue and even his hands felt foreign as they touched her skin but he breathed in, exhaled, took the bullet for all the wrong reasons.

As if right on queue, Sherlock had swept back into existence and John's lungs burned against the sudden onslaught of _life._ Bones and joints yawned and stretched, awakening after two years of numb. Vessels pumped blood through his dying veins, every inch of his skin stood tall in recognition:  _You're_ _home, you_ are _home. The fire is no longer a smoulder, watch as flames lick the sky. Haven't slept a wink until this, until there was you_ _._

 

 

Months later, he'd nearly slid a diamond ring on Mary's finger in a crowded church. Had almost wiped everything that mattered from the map. But, in the end, he'd walked out on his own wedding. Sherlock had followed as John knew he would. What transpired within seconds of Sherlock bursting through the door of 221B (John had made his way there, blindly - without even intending to) and John slamming it shut behind him, changed the course of everything.

"You _cock._ You were going to let me go through with it and _you_...you...how could you, Sherlock?"

They'd locked eyes as the priest recited the obligatory vows about sickness and health, 'til death do you part and it knocked John breathless. Sherlock quickly turned away but he'd been found out. Two sacred words had silently fallen from his lips as Mary said them aloud, "I do."

" _I_ didn't force you to abandon your wife at the alter, John. If you're going to accuse me of something at least make it accurate."

John inhaled deeply and exhaled, shakily. " _DON'T._ Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about."

Sherlock stared at the polished surface of his shoes as if he'd committed an unspeakable crime, like he'd stabbed John in the back by loving him (too much). "I'm sorry."

At this point, John was pacing in his suit and cravat. His pulse hammering away as his shoes clicked along the floor, back and forth. How in the hell was this his life? That's right, he lives with a madman. Correction... _lived._

"For what, exactly? Come out with it."

"I have only ever wanted happiness for you, John. I...I couldn't do it. I'm sorry. Mary makes you happy and I-"

He really could be a bloody idiot at times. There, in the sitting room of the home they'd created together, John kissed the love of his life. The weeks that followed were a flurry of apologetic letters mailed to wedding guests as well as the gifts they'd sent, passionate kisses by the stairs leading up to their flat, dinner at Angelo's.

Still, those three words had yet to be spoken.

Until now.

 

Sherlock assumes John is soundly sleeping and whispers them against the shell of his ear. Had he realized the opposite, he would've buried the words. A childhood touched with loss and an unfeeling lesson about sentiment making a person weak has stuck with Sherlock. It comes out in a harsh manner at times, with him purposely pushing John away. And John may stomp off at times but he always comes home.

It should be comforting but love is vast and riddled with trapdoors for Sherlock. It comes with a price or so he has always assumed. He is teaching himself how to demolish those walls and kick in the doors when it comes to John. Yet, an ingrained fear in him screams loudly, "SENTIMENT is how you lose him. If you love, keep it to yourself. He mustn't know." It sounds an awful lot like Mycroft.

 

"Frida Kahlo," John murmurs sleepily. Harry had waxed poetic about her often enough and talked his ear off about her beliefs during their teenage years. As such, he's more familiar with her than most.

Sherlock tenses and the hand that had been lovingly carding through John's hair moments prior, freezes.

"She received the nobel prize in 1946 by the Ministry of Public Education," Sherlock stammers. In times of great stress, his brain supplies facts and numbers as opposed to raw emotion.

 _Charming_. John had described him as such after their first meeting and seeing him now with messy curls and wide eyes, it fits. He blinks, owlishly, and attempts to slip into his overly confident public persona. It doesn't fit.

John hooks a finger under a proud chin and urges Sherlock to look him in the eye. John needs him to _feel_ what he is saying. "I love you more than my own skin," he echos, voice hushed. He is not merely parroting the affection; he has never meant anything more than he means this.

Sherlock blinks rapidly, absorbing and analyzing. "You mean to say you..."

Sunlight pours through a sliver where the curtains don't quite meet and the bedside clock quietly ticks away. Outside, the world is waking up for the day. In the warmth of their bedroom, a light comes on. A room in Sherlock's mind palace, once closed off and darkened, opens.

"-love you a little. Adore you," John finishes. He laughs, "A lot, actually."

The ceiling and stained glass windows of the once hidden room expand and dust particles dance in the air. Here, he has stored his love for John. A place where John would never find it. Only, he had, unintentionally. Impossibly, he _loves_ Sherlock.

Sentiment is how you lose him, Mycroft's voice taunts.

"You can't," Sherlock insists.

"I _can_." John brushes his lips against one cheekbone and the other. His voice lowers, mouth to Sherlock's ear. "And I do."

If you were to ask him when he'd fallen for his best friend he'd say, "29, January 2010. St. Barts with a pipette in his hand. _From the first._ "

Sherlock shudders and the last brick of every wall he has ever constructed crumbles. John Watson is in love. He'd left his fiancé at the alter. He'd mourned for two years after Sherlock had swan dived from St. Barts. He'd nearly drank himself to death...for **love**. It's a vicious motivator indeed. Mycroft is wrong, he has to be.

"You _love_ me," he breathes and takes John's face in his palms, eyes darting over its every curve for confirmation.

John's heart feels full to bursting. If he were to speak, he might pass out. He nods. Sunlight hits the pale curve of Sherlock's neck and he smiles, warm as Springtime. With one swift movement, he flips John onto his back and straddles him.

"Show me," Sherlock breathes.

John does, slowly and passionately. Again and again.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm ashamed to admit that I do know about her but not a whole lot. I saw this quote on tumblr and ran with it, it's beautiful.


End file.
